


Quarantine

by Jen_814



Category: Smash (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:13:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28015257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jen_814/pseuds/Jen_814
Summary: Coronavirus hits New York City. Ivy and Derek are quarantining together with their two year old daughter. Stuff happens.
Relationships: Ivy Lynn/Derek Wills, Tom Levitt/Sam Strickland
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Quarantine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnetgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetgirl/gifts).



> NB I'm adjusting the word's timeline to move the coronavirus pandemic forwards to start two and a half years after the end of Smash. I'd be grateful if you could suspend your disbelief on this point.
> 
> NB I do not have or know any children; all of my understanding of 2yr olds has been taken from google searches. Please forgive me for my inevitable mistakes.

_Three days before quarantine_

They heard it over the television. Derek was chopping potatoes while Ivy poured out two glasses of wine and complained about her day. Derek caught a fragment of the news report and shushed Ivy, locating the remote control on a shelf and turning up the volume.

They listened - tense - as the report unfolded. The voice was sombre, and the delivery was slow, deliberate and devoid of any good news. Derek watched Ivy grow pale under her make-up, and he put his knife back down on the counter to avoid anxiously fidgeting with the blade. The bleakness of the report gave way to alarm - and then to a feeling of increasing panic.

“Well, shit,” said Ivy.

Derek jabbed her in the side, and motioned towards Cat, playing with lego a few feet away.

“Well, _biscuits_ ,” she corrected, shooting Derek a look.

“Biscuits indeed,” he said, eyes on the television.

\--

_1 week, four days in quarantine_

Ivy loved her daughter. She repeated that to herself as she blearily found her dressing gown, shoved her feet into slippers, and made her way down the dark corridor. She paused before the door, which was decorated with vinyl monkeys and declared in a bright blue curling script, ‘ _Catherine’s Room_ ’. There was a thumping coming from inside interspersed with a giggling chatter that was entirely inappropriate for 3am on a Tuesday morning.

Ivy opened the door. The night-light in the corner cast a delicate glow over her daughter, who was sitting in the middle of her stuffed animals, with a plastic set of cutlery scattered between them. Mr Bear and Miss Kitty seemed to be wielding forks, while Cat had three spoons clutched in her small hands.

“Mummy!” she said beatifically, and motioned towards the circle. “Duck.”

“Do you know,” Ivy started, using her all-too-real tiredness to enforce her authoritative tone, “how late it is? You should be in bed.”

Cat blinked and pursed her lips in a frown.

“You _know_ that you should be in bed.”

Cat looked as if she was considering this for a moment, and then promptly sat down and bounced her heels against the floor, in the unpredictable and highly unfathomable way of two-year-olds.

Ivy sighed, and picked up her daughter. She could never get over - she thought she never would - the weight of her little girl, the solidity. In a world where Ivy played make-believe for a living, Cat was the most real thing in her life.

That isn’t to say that she’s not annoying. Ivy yawned as she tucked her daughter into bed, and thought wistfully of her own king-size. How often did Cat do this? She’d have to ask Derek - he was usually on Cat-duty in the night, but since quarantine they’d been sharing more of the childcare responsibilities.

She still got angry when she thought about the timing. _Three weeks_ until Scarlet Pimpernel was due to open on Broadway, and the governor makes the call. Ivy knew that coronavirus was more important than theatre and she knew that she shouldn’t complain - but she was pissed. So much damn work, so much _money_. In the space of one announcement, Ivy had gone from the star of a highly anticipated musical to a hermited housewife. How long could they keep the theatres closed for? Did they realise just how many people’s livelihoods depending on the arts? Did they realise how precarious this life could be, even without pandemics?

At least her friends got to go outside - they complained about the queues at the markets and how busy Central Park was, and Ivy had to use all her Tony award-winning acting skills to remain calm and sympathetic. For the Lynn-Wills family, leaving their Manhattan flat was not an option.

Cat wriggled, still clearly awake. She kept her eyes closed though, and Ivy decided to stay in the room a little longer, until she was sure she wouldn’t have to get up again.

It was, of course, all because of Cat. Ivy and Derek’s daughter had been born into the world blonde, exuberant and severely asthmatic - it was usually manageable, but could be fatal if combined with the wrong illness. Coronavirus was just such a beast, and so Cat was home-bound for the foreseeable future. And because of its highly infectious nature - and because fate was a bitch - so were her parents.

Ivy loved her daughter. She loved Derek, and she loved their flat. But she also loved her job, her friends, New York - and she missed it all like crazy. She was a week and a half into quarantine, and she thought that she could explode with longing for her normal life.

Ivy looked down at Cat - it seemed like she’d finally drifted off. _You make everything harder_ , she thought, watching her daughter breathe, _but you make everything better, too_.

\--

_2 weeks, 1 day in quarantine_

This was not supposed to be happening. Derek was certain - he was _absolutely sure_ \- that the human body was not supposed to bend like this.

“Breath into your arms, and rainbow your spine,” said the yoga instructor on the YouTube video.

Ivy stretched her left arm down to the floor, her legs gracefully arranged in a lunge position. With her other arm, she stretched up towards the ceiling, then behind her to the far side of the wall.

Derek gamely tried to do the same, but was hampered by the fact that he was out of breath and sweating heavily, and that his arms and legs did not appear to have rubber components, unlike (as far as he could tell) Ivy and the serene yoga instructor. He was deeply uncomfortable and stayed in his lunge position for the sake of sheer pride.

A minute later, he collapsed into child pose. Apparently, his pride wasn’t worth much.

As he lay in repose, listening to the soothing tones of the sadistic harpy coming from the open laptop, he felt disappointment crashing down around his sweaty mat. He had imagined himself to be a fit, healthy man - he’d thought this would be a fun thing to do with Ivy (possibly even a sexy thing - his girl looked good in lycra), but he’d never imagined that he’d find it so _difficult_.

“And now we’ll take a breath to rest in downward dog.”

Ivy placed her hands on the mat, and arched her hips towards the ceiling. Derek tried to follow, but his sweaty hands slid on the mat, his hamstrings ached at the stretch and his wrists protested at the strain of holding his weight. He managed for a couple strangled breaths before collapsing again.

“Just going,” he said between gasps, “to get a glass of water.” He staggered out of the room and down the hall, feeling as though every muscle in his body were crying out with pain. 

He was passing back from the kitchen with a bottle of water in his hand when he caught a glance of himself in the hallway mirror. His face was flushed bright red, and his grey-speckled hair was slicked unevenly over his sweaty face. The light seemed to bring out every wrinkle and crag in his skin. Derek had always maintained a low-key confidence in his attractiveness, his youthfulness, but now - he looked every inch of his 43 years.

Derek backed away, pushing the thoughts from his mind, and taking a slug of his water. He carried down the corridor to the spare room which they’d been using as a makeshift gym, and stopped outside, watching Ivy twist herself elegantly from the floor, to a plank, to another flawless downward dog. She was perspiring slightly, but looked happy, healthy.

Derek left abruptly, he headed back towards the kitchen and tossed the water in the sink. He took a beer from the fridge instead and drank it slowly while flicking through channels on the television. He wished he could go for a run - apart from the exercise, he had a sudden longing to be anywhere but in this flat.

When Ivy came in twenty minutes later, they discussed meal plans for the next week, and activities for Cat. Derek congratulated himself on just how normal he made his voice sound.

\--

_3 weeks in quarantine_

“So when you next talk to him, maybe drop it into conversation?”

Ivy smiled, amused despite herself. “I don’t know how to drop that into conversation,” she said.

“Oh, it’s easy.” said Sam Strickland, his handsome face slightly pixelated on Ivy’s laptop screen. “You’re talking to Tom about lockdown, about how much you miss going outside - that leads on to places you’d like to go to when covid’s over, different states you’d like to visit. Then when he’s nodding along, agreeing with you - bring up the RV. The comfort of home with the thrill of exploration. Doesn’t that sound great?.”

“Hmm,” said Ivy, thinking of the brownstone that Sam and Tom shared together, and how its comforts could compare to a temporary mobile home. She was inclined to think negatively.

Sam and Tom were a fantastic couple - after a few awkward starts, they’d settled into an enviably happy relationship which had brought about three cats, their home in West Village and a summer house in the Hamptons (Sam’s hollywood career was doing _very_ well). Their differences in character and tastes only seemed to bring them closer together, as they never stopped learning about the other, and could always be counted on for lively debate. But holidays were becoming an issue.

Sam, ten years younger than Tom and driven towards action, was a keen hiker and adored the countryside. Tom’s idea of a top-notch holiday was to lounge about in cities, glacially moving between museums and galleries with frequent stops for martinis. (As it happened, Ivy definitely leaned towards Tom’s opinions on vacation time.)

“Are you sure,” started Ivy, feeling her way carefully, “that the answer is to buy an RV?”

As Sam launched off into an explanation of features and customisations, Ivy thought back to her last holiday with Derek, back before Cat had been born. When Ivy’s pregnancy had finally prevented her from performing in Bombshell, they’d driven up to New England and rented a cottage just outside of Boston for a week. They’d spent their days window-shopping, eating clam chowder, and, well - other things. Why hadn’t they been back? Or, gone somewhere else? Cat, she supposed. And her job.

As Sam finished his fervent speech, Ivy returned to the conversation. “I promise that I’ll mention it,” she said. Sam beamed.

\--

_3 weeks, 4 days in quarantine_

When Ivy had moved in and Cat had arrived, most of the rooms in Derek’s spacious flat had been rearranged. His bedroom was now their bedroom, the spare room was now Ivy’s wardrobe (the woman had a lot of clothes) and the second living room was now Cat’s playroom. Derek’s study, however, had kept its purpose. The decor was the same (he had not allowed Ivy her liberal hand with florals and fairy lights) and his desk and bookshelves were just as solid and imposing as they had been two, three years ago. The difference was in the books. The plays, the studies on acting, the biographies of directors were still there, but a new set of literature had pushed them out of view. _The Whole Child Brain, The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read, Helping Your Child With Fears And Worries_ and _Pregnancy For Men: The Whole Nine Months_ were now indicative of the ouvre on display on his shelves. At the moment, Derek was deep in the following: _Ages and Stages: A Parent’s Guide to Normal Childhood Development_.

“Biscuits,” he said.

He turned to his laptop, and opened the whatsapp browser. He sipped his peppermint tea as he navigated to his parents group (The Deadly Pigeons - named after a long-running inner joke) and typed the following:

 **Derek** :  
Hey guys, hope you’re having a good day. Get well soon Sudha, we’re all rooting for you.  
I’m having some trouble with Cat. She’s not hitting her speaking milestones, and I think quarantine is making her regress. She’s not saying much other than ‘duck’. Any thoughts?

Derek pressed send. Almost immediately, he saw the wavy lines to indicate that someone was replying to him. He loved this group.

 **Hannah** :  
Poor love. Most important thing is not to worry, especially in front of her. She might be feeling too much pressure.

 **Derek** :  
How could I encourage her to talk without pressuring?

 **Hannah** :  
Make it into a game? She likes stickers, doesn’t she? Could give her a sticker each time she correctly names something.

 **Adhira** :  
How old is she now? It may be a phase.

 **Louise** :  
Tyler learns best through picture books, we say the animals out loud together before turning the page. Hope that helps xxx

 **Kalifa** :  
Don’t let it get to you! You’re a great Dad :) It’ll happen when it happens

 **Sierre** :  
I usually try to catch Shaquil off guard with learning games - like when he’s eating, or in the bath. Not make such a big deal about it, you know?

There was more typing, and more suggestions. Derek smiled, immeasurably cheered. He leaned forwards in his chair, and started to reply.

\--

_4 weeks, 2 days in quarantine_

Leigh Conway was _terrible_ at facetime. She always forgot where the camera was, and spoke too loudly and authoritatively, as though the laptop was autonomously capricious and she needed to assert her dominance over it. Cat adored these calls - she loved the noise and the funny images of close-up sections of her grandmother’s face, alternated with shots of the floor, the ceiling and the patch of wall by the side of Leigh’s head. It all gave Ivy kind of a headache, but she managed for Cat’s sake. And, she supposed, for her mother’s.

“It’s been a _nightmare_ , I’m so _stressed_.” Leigh said, fanning the air beside her to fully articulate her anguish.

“I am completely isolated, there’s no one around but me, I’m going to absolutely fade away.”

Leigh lived in Charleston, had a large group of local friends and was still playing tennis five times a week. The covid restrictions in South Carolina were not strict enough to stop her going out whenever she wanted, seeing her friends in parks and outdoor cafes, or even (this had infuriated Ivy) getting her dog professionally washed, groomed and psychoanalysed.

Cat giggled, and reached out to touch the ipad screen, which was now projecting an image of Leigh’s left ear. “Duck,” she said assuredly, and waved her hand in a simulation of water.

“Yes, sweetheart,” said Ivy, “Ducks swim in water. Do you remember what a duck says?”

Cat looked sternly at her mother. “ _Duck_ ,” she said firmly.

“I saw some ducks the other day, dear!” said Leigh, the camera tipping to showcase her left nostril. “There are some in the park near where Shelley lives. If only you were here,” she sighed dramatically, “we could go feed them together.”

“Duck. Duck duck _duck_.”

“But of course, you’re not here. I’m all alone, with no family around me at all.”

“Duck ducky duck.”

“So very, very alone.”

Ivy groaned internally, but kept smiling. She subtly checked the time, and started a countdown in her head.

\--

_4 weeks, 3 days in quarantine_

Derek opened the freezer and studied the contents. “Salmon tonight, I think. With courgettes, and the last of the broccoli.”

He looked at Cat, who was sitting on the kitchen floor a few feet away, playing with her stuffed rabbit and a picture book.

“How does that sound?” he asked.

Cat peered at him. “Duck?”

“Salmon. Can you say salmon?”

Cat wiggled her fingers at him. “Good duck.”

Derek smiled at his daughter, and turned back to the freezer. He should really have persisted, but time was getting on, and it was just too tiring.

He got his phone out and put his playlist on shuffle. Above his head, the in-built speakers launched into a Taylor Swift song.

“Don’t judge me,” said Derek, looking at Cat. “She’s brilliant.”

Cat grinned at him, and bashed her rabbit against the counter. Derek wondered if his daughter played a little too rough with her toys, and added that to the mental list of things to look up when he had time.

_“Nice to meet you, where you been? I can show you incredible things.”_

Damn good song, thought Derek as he started chopping garlic. It would work well on stage. He imagined a darkened set, a spotlight on the singer, which split out to the other dancers towards the end of the verse, spread out, possibly, along the four corners of the stage.

_“I can make the bad guys good for a weekend...”_

And then, at that moment - the lights would change. A red tinge, no, maybe orange? The dancers would start moving towards the centre; their movements jagged, electrified. The singer - protagonist in the musical, he thought, this is definitely a lead number - would be sinuous by comparison, elegant and seductive.

_“Cause you know I love the players, and you love the game!”_

Right then - contact. The singer would be lifted, by two (maybe three) of the supporting dancers, they’d carry her bodily to the front of the stage, where they’d all move together in synchronisation, a tight knit group - would need another spotlight for that.

_“Don’t say I didn’t, say I didn’t warn ya…”_

And just like that, they’d separate; there would be an instrumental bridge where the singer would dance, still sinuous, but reaching towards her dancers. It would be powerful and seductive, but the freneticism of the movement would hint at a desperation central to the character.

_“But I got a blank space, baby - and I’ll write your name.”_

As suddenly as it had been lit, the stage would darken again, leaving only the one spotlight on the singer in the centre, as the dancers used the darkness to slip back into the wings. The song would end just as it had begun; it would be like a whirlwind had happened during the course of the song, but with no evidence left behind that it was ever there at all.

Derek blinked as Taylor Swift segued into Emeli Sande. He looked down at his chopped garlic, and moved over to the courgette, glancing across at his daughter.

“Stop hitting Mr Rabbit, sweetheart. I don’t think he likes it.”

“Duck”, said Cat.

\--

_Five weeks, 2 days in quarantine_

Tom’s background was of a white sandy beach with turquoise blue skies. It was the fourth time that he’d changed it in their six minute video call, and Ivy was starting to get wanderlust.

“Where’s that one from?” she said, peering at the screen.

“Guadeloupe,” sighed Tom. “So beautiful, so serene. Except for when I accidentally ordered liver pate.” He shuddered. “Not nice.”

“It’s been an age since I’ve been at a beach,” sighed Ivy. “I’d kill to feel sand between my toes.”

“If you’re going to go on holiday, you’d have to take a couple days break,” said Tom. “You’ve been working non-stop since getting back from maternity leave. And that was, what, 22 months ago?”

“Mm,” said Ivy. “I can’t shake the feeling that it’ll all go away, if I don’t take every opportunity.” 

“Please, you’re broadway’s golden girl! You killed it in Gatsby, The Times was ecstatic over your Ulla - and you really are phenomenal in Pimpernel.”

“Thank you - but, these things can go away. And,” she paused, feeling self-conscious. “I came to this level later than I’d have liked - I’m not getting any younger.”

The ghost of Karen Cartwright drifted through her mind.

Tom’s face softened. “Darling, I wish I could hug you. But you’re beautiful and brilliant and you deserve everything that you’ve achieved. You have many, many years of leading lady roles ahead of you.”

“You think?”

“I say this as a director as well as your friend.” Tom leaned towards the screen. “Trust me.”

Ivy smiled. “Thanks Tom,” she pressed her hand to her temple and started massaging it. “I needed that.”

“Tough being at home?”

“I’m going frantic. And Derek - “

“What?”

“Derek is -” Ivy paused, trying to find the right words. He’s distant, he’s withdrawn - they hadn’t had sex in months. When she asked him how he was, he always told her that he was fine, just fine. “Oh, it’s all okay. Just complaining.” 

She searched for another topic of conversation.

“I meant to say - I spoke to Sam the other day,” she said.

“Oh god,” said Tom. “Did he talk to you about an RV? I can’t begin to tell you how horrendous that sounds.”

Ivy laughed, genuinely. “He seems really keen.”

“Yes. He keeps showing me pictures of luxury interiors, but there’s no getting away from the fact that it’s a _home_ on _wheels_. And then he starts -”

Ivy giggled, and lounged back against the couch, her laptop propped on her knees. Quarantine was hard, but - at least she had this.

\--

_6 weeks, 3 days in quarantine_

Derek was shaving. He’d started growing out his designer stubble after quarantine had started - more from lack of grooming motivation, rather than anything aesthetic. But it was coming to the point where Derek had stopped recognising his face in mirrors, and he felt like he needed to get this under control.

He picked up his shaving cream, and started to smooth it over his face.

He thought about his daughter. Cat was the best thing in his life, the best thing that he’d ever done - but she was _difficult_. Aside from the usual toddler issues (disobedience, emotional outbursts, inexplicable behaviour) her asthma was a constant concern, and developmental problems had started to crop up. She should be speaking by now, in sentences even. She should be more curious, she should have better mobility skills. Derek needed to help her, but he didn’t know how.

Now lathered, he carefully started in with the razor.

Ivy was a problem. They shared a home and a child together, and sometimes she felt like a stranger to him. The pretty blonde with the beautiful voice who had gazed at him like he was god’s gift - where had she gone? In place, he had a brisk, busy girlfriend, still pretty, still with angelic voice - who complained about her day but never asked about his, who laughed and chattered with her friends, but never seemed completely happy to be with him. He was losing her, and he could only watch, paralysed, as she left.

Derek splashed water on his face, and cleaned off with a towel.

He desperately missed his job. Broadway had been everything, _everything_ , to him for years, and the loss of it was an ache that never went away. Derek read books and envisioned them performed on stage; he listened to music and imagined choreography; he spoke to friends, watched television and thought of characterisation, costumes, mannerisms. When the scandal hit and his agent stopped returning his calls, Derek had lost a limb. He’d been carrying on, wounded, since then - but feeling only a part of what he once was.

Derek scrutinised his reflection in the mirror. He looked old, tired and unfit - but at least his facial hair was on point. In a life he was failing and in a world he couldn’t control, he supposed that would have to do.

\--

_7 weeks in quarantine_

“Wine. Lots of it, please.”

“Wine,” repeated Sam on the other end of the line. “Would you like anything specific?”

Ivy thought for a moment. “Not really. Red, white, rose - just get the lot. And maybe a bottle of gin, too, just for fun.”

“Gin,” repeated Sam.

“Maybe vodka as well - just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case I need it,” said Ivy, implacable.

“Got it, will be emptying out NYC’s liquor stores for you Ives. What else?”

“Toilet paper please.”

“Gold dust might be more manageable.”

“I can’t manage without toilet paper.”

“Sure you can, you just need to shower every time you go to the bathroom.”

Ivy could sense Sam’s grin from down the phone, and imagined that he was picturing her own scowl. Ivy Lynn did _not_ want to compromise on toilet paper.

“I will try,” said Sam. “What else?”

“M&Ms!” yelled Derek from the other room.

“M&Ms,” repeated Ivy so that Sam could hear.

“Peanut butter M&Ms!” Derek clarified, in another shout from the living room.

“That’s _peanut butter_ M&Ms,” Ivy said into the phone. She turned to see Derek at the door, carrying Cat in his arms.

“Hello,” she said sweetly.

“To specify,” Derek said, “It’s peanut _butter_ M&Ms, not peanut M&Ms. I don’t want any whole nuts. And you can’t substitute with Reese’s Pieces, they don’t taste the same.”

Ivy spoke into the phone again, “Derek would like to check that you’ve written down peanut _butter_ M&Ms. Not peanut.”

“And not Reece’s Pieces!” said Derek.

“Not Reece’s Pieces,” Ivy dutifully repeated to Sam.

There was a pause. “I think I’ve got it,” said Sam.

“Anything else?” he continued, sounding a little desperate. “Fruit, vegetables… nappies?”

“No, that’s all coming in the supermarket delivery,” said Ivy placidly. “These are for the things we need right now.”

“Things you need right now.” Sam repeated slowly.

“Yes!”, said Ivy, suddenly elated, “And could you get Junior Mints please?”

Another pause. “Of course,” said Sam.

\--

_8 weeks, 2 days in quarantine_

The introductory music was fairly alarming. It played as something deranged; all trumpets and percussion and disconcerting jauntiness. The voice that followed wasn’t much of an improvement.

“HEY KIDS! Learning is FUN!”

Derek glanced across to Cat, whose expression had crossed from intrigued to distasteful. She was like Ivy, she had a very expressional face - was this an indication that she’d be an actress one day? He kind of hoped not, it was a weird job.

“Let’s go to the FARM! OINK! What makes that sound?”

A suspenseful pause.

“A…. PIG!”

Derek paused the podcast. “Cat, can you say pig?” he asked.

Cat looked sternly at him. “Duck.”

“Sweetheart, _Pig_. Pig goes Oink, Duck goes Quack.” Derek said, his patience tempered with the slightest of hysteria. “Oink oink - what makes that sound?”

Cat thought for a moment. “Daddy.”

Derek stopped. He supposed she was right, he _had_ just made that sound. And at least she was using another word than duck. Maybe they should just move on.

He pressed play again. The narrator continued to make animal sounds, accompanied by periodical rhapsodies on the enjoyment of vocabulary. Cat was getting bored, she started glowering at Derek and played with her toes instead of answering.

Derek switched it off. She clearly wanted to communicate - the confidence in her tone and the accompaniment of mannerisms indicated that she wanted to convey a meaning - but she seemed to just prefer the word ‘duck’ to everything else in her lexicon.

What did that mean - should he call in a specialist? He watched her lying on her back, rolling gently from side to side, and babbling to herself. Maybe that would be a good idea - when quarantine was over, they’d make an appointment. For now - she was happy. And that was enough for the time being.

“Okay sweetheart,” said Derek. "Let’s get you some juice. And then we can get the blocks out, what do you say?”

Cat blew a raspberry.

Derek sighed. “I’ll take that for a yes.”

\--

_9 weeks, 1 day in quarantine_

“One two three _left_ , turn, then one to three _back_ , then - _ouch_ ”

Ivy swore as she bumped into the coffee table. Practicing her dance numbers at home was proving _challenging_. Tom was laughing at her now, from the laptop propped up on the chair.

“It’s not funny!” moaned Ivy. “I can’t forget these numbers, I need to be perfect for when the theatres open again.”

“Ivy…”, said Tom, “that’s going to be a while.”

“And when they do,” continued Ivy, “We’re going to be the first show to re-open because our actors have practised during quarantine.”

“Amen to that,” said Tom. “That spin you just did, it looked a little off-balance, could you try again on the left foot? And maybe you could -”

There was a knock, and Ivy looked up to see Derek at the open door.

“It’s time for Cat’s bath,” Derek said. He was flushed and sweating slightly, in his workout gear. “It’s your night for it.”

Ivy gestured around to her leotard, her open script book, Tom’s face on her laptop. “It’s not a good time,” she said. “Could you take care of it please?”

Derek stared. “We agreed that you’d do Wednesdays.”

“I know,” said Ivy evenly. “But I’ve got Tom dialed in and we’re going through some of the dance numbers - so could you take Cat for her bath tonight please?”

“Ivy,” Derek looked at her, still standing by the door, “Bit selfish.”

“Erm”, said Tom from Ivy’s laptop. “I should probably go.”

“I didn’t mean to be,” started Ivy, surprised and a little hurt, “I’ll make up for it tomorrow, of course - I just thought that because Tom’s here now that you could be a little more flexible.”

“More flexible? Seriously?” Derek said, sounding more annoyed than seemed warranted.

“I should definitely go,” said Tom, “I’ll speak to you later Ives.”

“Ah Tom, sorry -” Ivy moved towards the laptop, but Tom had already disconnected.

“That’s embarrassing,” she sighed and turned to Derek.

He’d crossed his arms and was looking at her with an expression that she couldn’t quite define.

“You take me for granted,” he said calmly, but with forcefulness behind it. “I do a lot for Cat, for you, the flat -”

“I don’t deny that,” Ivy said quickly.

“- and now you’re home all the time, I’m still doing most of the childcare. We sort out a plan, and then you assume you can just drop it and I’ll pick it up whenever suits you. Jesus Ivy, you didn’t even ask me in advance - you just expected that I would be there.”

There was a pause. Derek was upset, Ivy realised, really upset with her. She hadn’t known that this meant so much to him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, choosing her next words with care. “I’ve been so worried about Pimpernel, and I really wanted to talk to Tom about it. This time worked for him, and I thought it would be okay. But Derek -” she moved closer towards him, bridging the gap so that they were both standing in the doorway. “I was wrong, I do get that, and I’m sorry for not respecting you or your time.”

“Hey,” she said, watching his expression closely. “I really am sorry.”

Derek gave her a studying look. Ivy waited, feeling slightly chilled.

“Okay,” said Derek at last. “Thanks for saying that.”

He turned to leave, but Ivy called him back.

“While we’re talking,” she started, words coming out faster than she’d intended.

“What’s going on with us Derek?”, she said, heart beating a little faster than normal. “It doesn’t feel like… we’re not doing so well, are we?”

Derek leaned against the doorframe. “No, we’re not,” he said.

“What can I - what can we do?”

Derek shrugged, still looking at Ivy with this implacable coolness that made her want to cry.

“Well,” she martialled, “we’ll get through it. We love each other, and we’ll put the time in, and - oh.” she said, as she caught an expression shifting on Derek’s face.

“We do love each other… don’t we?”

The silence stretched so long that it became surreal.

“I don’t know,” said Derek, finally. He looked sad now, and he spoke with a weariness that cut a thousand times deeper than anger.

“Then we have a lot,” began Ivy, “to discuss.” Against her will, she felt tears coming to her eyes. “For the record, I still love you. Very much.”

She drew herself up and patted her eyes. “I’ll give Cat her bath now, but maybe we could talk tomorrow. I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight, to give us time…” her voice broke, “to think things over.”

“Ivy…” Derek started, as she moved past him to get to the living room. Ivy waited for a moment, but he shook his head. “Tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Ivy said, and she even managed a smile. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

\--

_9 weeks, two days in quarantine_

The sound of an incoming call was a truly welcome distraction for Derek. He closed the tab on tax breaks for the partially employed (who wrote this? It read like a series of riddles) and clicked accept on the skype call. A few moments later, Julia’s face came into view. Her curly hair was up in a loose bun and, as ever, a vibrant patterned scarf covered her neck and shoulders.

“Hey Derek. Hear me okay?”

“I hear you,” he said, and felt a genuine warmth spread through him. “Christ Jules… it’s great to see you again.”

He’d worked amiably enough with Julia during Bombshell, but it wasn’t until afterwards that they’d become friends. They had similar theatrical tastes, and both enjoyed plays and performances which focused on the dark and the edgy. When Julia was writing her Gatsby play, he’d spent hours talking with her about the characters and their motives. (She’d petitioned her producer to hire Derek as director, but they hadn’t gone for it.) Sometimes Julia came to the flat, and watched Cat while Derek ran errands or went for a run. Once after one of Julia’s breakups, Derek had gone round with a bottle of wine, and they’d played cards and got drunk together.

“Well, you know me,” said Julia. “I hear an SOS and I come running. Are you okay?”

“Not really,” Derek massaged his temples. “Quarantine has not been easy.”

“Understatement of the year. And most people can at least leave their house.”

Derek laughed, mirthlessly. “It’s hard on Cat - she’s started playing by the front door; sometimes she motions to be picked up towards the window. I can’t explain why we can’t go outside, why she can’t see her friends.”

“Mm,” said Julia speculatively. “I suspect it’s been hard on you and Ivy as well.”

“You could say that,” he said, and gave a synopsis of their talk last night.

“Shit,” she said at the end of it.

“Biscuits,” Derek corrected automatically. “Oh sorry -” Julia’s eyebrows were raised. “It’s what we say instead of swearing. We started with fudge, but that sounded too much like the real thing.”

“Biscuits,” said Julia, nodding. “Frank and I didn’t do anything with that for Leo - but then again,” she added, pensively, “he never seemed to notice much of what we were doing.”

Derek laughed, thinking of the kind, serious kid who gave off an air of being perpetually stoned. “Sounds like him.”

“But you and Ivy,” Julia wheeled the conversation back. “You haven’t spoken since then?”

“Not really. My fault, I’ve been avoiding. I want to talk to her -” he paused, then corrected, “I should want to talk to her, but I don’t know what to say yet.”

Derek sighed. “Cards on the table?”

“Please.”

“I am angry. And sad. _Permanently_. When the… scandal… broke nearly three years ago, it ruined my life. I know”, he said self-consciously, “that that sounds melodramatic, but it is what it is. My career was very important to me, it _was_ me. And I’ve been burying myself in Cat and being Mr Dad, but it’s not enough. I don’t know who I am anymore, so when Ivy asks me if I love her - I don’t know that either.”

Derek put his head in his hands. “This is pathetic.”

“Oh honey,” said Julia. “I wish I could hug you.”

“Not helping,” said Derek, the sound coming out muffled with his head still bowed.

“Then I’ll help,” she said, with a briskness that made Derek look up.

“You say that this all started with the… how did you put it? The _scandal_. So let’s talk about that.” She looked at him beadily. “Tell me what happened - from your perspective.”

“We’re really doing this?”

“Yes, we are.”

“I… fuck, I don’t know. I slept with a lot of women I worked with, but - you know the scene. It’s the life. Broadway’s a small town, and it’s an incestuous one. Everyone gets together and no-one really cares. Look at Tom, before he settled with Sam - I reckon his numbers would rival mine; Jerry has a revolving door of young actresses, and they don’t get called out for it. Even you, with -”

Derek paused, conscious that he may be crossing a line.

“Me - with Michael, you mean.”

“Yes,” said Derek. He sighed. “I know that I did some things wrong. With Daisy, with…” he grimaced. “With Karen. But nothing I did was unusual in this business. Or untolerated by other people. And for that - I lose my career? It feels like bad luck, as much as any fault of mine.”

Julia was silent for a moment. “Fudge,” she said at last. “You swore before, you should have said fudge instead.”

Derek thought back. “Oh yeah. Thanks.”

Julia drummed her fingers on her table, he could hear the faint tapping through the speakers.

“What I did with Michael,” she said slowly, “was wrong. Not just because I was married, but because he was an unknown at the time, and auditioning for a part in my musical. There was a power imbalance - a significant one - and I took advantage of it.”

She sighed. “There isn’t a handbook on this, and the lines can be very hard to see - especially when you’re in the moment. And when you’re a big-shot director, you’re always going to have a power imbalance with most of the people you come across on Broadway. It doesn’t mean that you can’t sleep with them, but it does mean that you have to consider your privilege. The women you mentioned - Daisy, Karen - I think you know that you crossed a line with them. I think that you said or implied that sex could be a transaction for them, that it could help their careers.” She looked at him, hard. “You did it to Ivy, too.

I’m guilty of that, with Michael - and you’re right, that it’s good luck that I wasn’t penalised for that, and bad luck that you were caught out. But you did do something wrong, Derek, and you don’t get to decide what the punishment for that will be. Even if it’s your career.

You need to get to terms with what you did, and you need to stop carrying all that baggage around. And then, maybe, you can feel human enough to be in love again.”

Derek tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. Anger battled with guilt inside him, and the latter won. He took a minute to think, then looked at the screen to see an apprehensive Julia.

“Damn Jules. Who needs enemies when they have friends like you?” he said.

“Too harsh?”

“Very harsh. But - probably necessary.”

“You know I love you.”

“Thanks.” Derek smiled. If Julia could throw the book at him like that, and still think he was worthwhile - maybe he had some hope with Broadway. With the world.

“Interested in a change of topic?” Julia said brightly. “I’ve been dating - on videocall! This one guy, we both lit candles by our laptops, made cocktails and had candlelit drinks together. It was going quite well, but then…”

Derek settled back, smiling. It was good to have a friend.

\--

_9 weeks, 3 days in quarantine_

Ivy opened the fridge door. She looked inside, blankly, then shut it and went to stand by the window. She looked outside for a few moments, then turned back to pace up and down the kitchen. She switched the kettle on, then switched it off again. She opened the fridge door.

Ivy was unhappy. Her partner and father of her child did not love her anymore, and she didn’t know if he even cared about her, and she would have to move out, and they would have to work out childcare arrangements, and she didn’t know how the money would work, and they were in a fucking _pandemic_ -. Ivy forced herself to calm down. She needed to keep busy, to focus on something else - every time she thought about Derek she felt as though she were going to collapse, and she couldn’t do that right now.

Cat. She was going to play with Cat this afternoon; Derek had had some ideas for a singing-based developmental game. This was fine; Ivy would focus on Cat.

She moved purposefully towards the playroom, thinking of nursery rhymes. _Mary Had A Little Lamb_ , she liked that one. When she approached Cat’s room, though, something seemed wrong. Time slowed as the images she was seeing turned to information in her brain, almost metronomic in their steadiness. 

One tick - through the open door, she saw her daughter lying on the floor. 

Two ticks - Cat was wheezing, her breath coming fast and ragged. 

Three ticks - her lips were blue.

Ivy might have screamed - she couldn’t tell - but she knew that she rushed forward, that she put Cat’s inhaler to her lips, administered the medicine, that she pulled her daughter into her arms, that Cat was _limp_ , that she _couldn’t breathe_ -.

As if from far away, she saw Derek - he ran into the room, he pulled Cat into a seated position, phone to his ear, talking to the emergency line.

They stayed like this for what could have been seconds or hours, until the ambulance arrived.

It passed in a cacophony of noise, colour and motion - watching the paramedics rush in with their equipment, riding along in the ambulance where Cat lay on a stretcher with her face obscured by a breathing device, arriving at the hospital and being told to wait, no they had to wait, that they’d be contacted when there was any further news. After months of quarantine, the world felt overwhelming. Ivy thought that it would have done even if her two-year old daughter wasn’t breathing.

Ivy wasn’t particularly religious or spiritual - she’d been to church with Sam a few times, and had always sung Christmas carols - but praying wasn’t something that came naturally to her. So it was a dull surprise when she realised that this was what she was doing, this was the repetitive motion of her thoughts. _Please let her be okay._ The constant refrain, thrumming through her head. _Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay._ She was praying to a sense of fairness; Cat was a _child_ and she was bright and sweet and so beautiful it _hurt_. The world couldn’t keep existing if Cat wasn’t in it, it wouldn’t make sense. _Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay_.

Derek held her hand, tightly. Ivy felt tears on her face, without remembering having cried. Time stretched and warped; nothing was real, but everything hurt. The terror, the utter terror.

The doctor had to say it twice for the message to sink in, and even then, Ivy had to look to Derek to check that she’d understood. Cat was safe. She was breathing again, there was no permanent damage, she would recover.

Later, when they were allowed in her room, Ivy and Derek sat at either side of Cat’s bed. She looked tiny under her blankets, and pale. Derek was gaunt, he’d aged years in the past few hours, and she’d never seen him look so scared. 

Ivy looked at her daughter, feeling crushed by emotions too complicated and too vast to articulate. _You are so deeply loved_ , she thought. _So very, deeply loved_.

\--

_9 weeks, 6 days in quarantine_

The Lynn-Wills flat had a balcony. It was a tiny structure set off of the main bedroom, with an unprepossessing view of an alley and another residential block. Up until a couple months ago, it had rarely been used. When Derek woke up that morning, it was here that he saw Ivy.

She was leaning over the railing, wearing a silky bathrobe and holding a coffee mug in her hand. She jumped slightly when Derek came to join her, liquid sloshing over the side of her mug.

“Sorry,” he said, leaning next to Ivy against the railing.

“No, it’s me,” she said. “I was far away.”

“How’s Cat?”, asked Derek. For the last few nights they’d been taking turns watching over Cat while she slept - from the looks of it, Ivy had just gotten back from her night shift.

“Good. More tired than usual, but… good.”

Derek breathed out, relieved. “Thanks for watching her.”

“You’re welcome.”

Cat’s medical emergency had blown out all plans for the couple to talk - they were stiff with each other, polite. Derek hated it.

“Can we-” 

“I wanted to-”

They spoke at the same time - then stopped. Ivy blushed.

“With Cat being sick,” she began, quietly, “it really clarified for me how bonded we are. We share a child, we’re going to be connected for the rest of our lives.”

An image flashed through Derek’s mind, of Cat as an adult, Ivy and Derek wrinkled and grey-haired.

“Whatever happens with us, we need to be able to talk. For Cat’s sake.”

A breeze caught a strand of Ivy’s blonde hair, blowing it across her face. For a strange moment, Derek had the urge to catch it, and tuck it behind her ear.

“You’re right. I haven’t exactly been forthcoming.” he said.

“And I haven’t been very attentive,” said Ivy. “But I want to work on that.”

“That sounds good.” Derek rubbed the back of his head, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s not easy for me to talk about my feelings.”

“Take your time,” said Ivy. She hesitated, and then gently placed her hand on his. “I’m here for you.”

Derek nodded, warmed. He turned his hand over, and interlaced his fingers with hers.

\--

_11 weeks, 5 days in quarantine_

“If I hear the phrase ‘unprecedented situation’ again,” mused Derek, scrolling through his emails, “I might have to break my phone.”

Ivy looked across at him. She was tidying Cat’s toys away, from earlier that day when they’d had a rambunctious and highly animated tea party with all of her stuffed animals. It was dusk now, and the light coming in through the windows was soft and delicately pink.

“What would you prefer?”

“Just… some originality would be nice. Like - an ‘extraordinary state of affairs’.”

“Think I’ve heard that. What about - ‘unparalleled circumstances’.”

Derek scratched his stubble. “An ‘unrivaled thing’,” he said.

“Can’t say ‘thing’.”

“Unrivaled _conditions_.”

“Nice.” Ivy said approvingly. “Can I have ‘uncommon’? Like - we are facing an ‘uncommon state’.”

“Not emphatic enough - needs more oomph.”

“ _Highly_ uncommon state.”

“ _Ridiculously_ uncommon state.”

“ _Obscenely_ uncommon state.”

“ _Horrendously and cavernously improbable_ uncommon state.”

They were both laughing now, and Ivy abandoned the toys to lounge on the sofa with Derek. Things had been better recently. Ivy was working hard to share household responsibilities, and Derek was opening up to her more. He’d also started seeing a therapist, which Ivy privately felt was _long_ overdue. He still hadn’t told her that he loved her - she disliked how conscious she was of this - but he was showing his affection more. Little compliments, and the odd hug. It wasn’t enough, but it felt like progress. It felt like respect.

“Shall we go crazy,” Derek said, nudging Ivy with his foot, “and make popcorn?”

He looked at her, smiling.

“Let’s do it,” she said.

\--


End file.
